Fight or Flight
by Late Night Iridescence
Summary: A disease, sudden and incurable, is released across the Human World. Komatsu is alone when the dead start walking, and though he proves more than capable of protecting himself, the Kings aren't quite as willing to put him at risk - in the end, they all have a choice to make.


Warning: Violence and gore. Basically, any warnings you'd expect when zombies are involved.

1 - outbreak

Of _course_ everything would fall apart now, Komatsu thought, eyes on the television but attention focused on the phone ringing futily against his ear. Of _course_ people were dying in droves while Toriko was so caught up in a hunt that no one could reach him.

The sickness had blindsided them all; four days in and the death toll had crept into the hundreds, doctors and scientists frantically searching for a cure only to find more questions than answers. But there was a theory spreading like wildfire, one with which Komatsu secretly agreed, based on meager firsthand knowledge: a disease with a 100% chance of death could only come from the Gourmet World.

Details were few and far between, and all the science flew straight over Komatsu's head, but a virus that continued to survive, continued to _mutate _after the infected died sounded very, very bad.

This morning they'd learned exactly what it was mutating into.

Sighing, Komatsu left his tenth message of the day (each and every one of them begging Toriko to come home as soon as he could) and hung up, tossing the phone onto the coffee table with a little more force than necessary. It wasn't the phone's fault, but he was stressed and tired and too scared to sleep more than a few fitful hours, and all Komatsu wanted was his partner. In his mind, Toriko equated safety.

Taking a calming breath, Komatsu padded over to a window and peeked cautiously around the edge of the curtain, trying to tell if the situation outside had gotten any better. Panicked men and women roaming the streets? Check. Distant smoke curling up into the sky as fires broke out across the city? Check. Frantic, terrified screams that lifted the hair at the nape of his neck? Double and triple check.

A lone police car tore down the road, sirens blaring. Komatsu watched its progress until the bloody glare of the afternoon sun forced him to look away. The sight of it eased some of the tension settled in his shoulders; if the authorities and IGO were on top of things, surely this new stage of the virus would be under control quickly.

Komatsu yawned, rubbing at his eyes to try and clear his blurring vision. He should take a nap, at least, so he'd be awake and aware for whatever happened next. Ready to move when Toriko came to pick him up, or finally returned his calls.

His only contact with any of the Kings had been three days ago, a short call from Coco telling him to stay indoors and wait for his partner.

_"Don't let anyone but Toriko inside, Komatsu-kun. No matter what happens, keep your doors and windows locked."_

Komatsu had heard nothing since then, not from Coco, or Sunny, or Zebra, and certainly not from Toriko. He knew the bishokuya were probably just busy (or, in Zebra's case, completely unconcerned), but he'd give almost anything to know for sure that everyone was okay, abating his nagging sense of worry. Try as he might, Komatsu couldn't shake the image of his friends sick, maybe dying, with no cure to help them…

He thumped his forehead against the wall, just hard enough to jolt himself back to reality. There was no way the Kings - especially Coco - would succumb to an illness. Not even one from the Gourmet World.

All he needed to do was sit tight. Toriko would be here soon.

Komatsu turned down the volume on his TV, cutting off a newscaster in the middle of her sentence, and curled up on the sofa, phone in one hand and Melk knife in the other.

Sleep did not come easily.

* * *

Toriko hummed quietly to himself, munching absentmindedly at a mushroom as he walked up the dirt path that led to his house. Fun as the hunt had been - first time in a long while he'd been on his own, really getting to stretch his legs, as the saying went - he'd missed the easy companionship that had become a familiar, steady presence in his life this past year. To think he'd once been entirely independent and now couldn't go on a hunt without missing Komatsu enough to cut short what was meant to be a weeklong trip. He frowned a little, considering what it must be like for his fellow Kings, who didn't get to see Komatsu nearly as often as he did; he knew they'd come to care for the small, incredibly talented chef as much as he had.

It was impossible not to. Either way, hunting alone had lost its appeal; no point in trying again anytime soon, maybe not ever. If only Komatsu didn't have to work…

Preoccupied with vague plans to take Komatsu and pester one of the others as soon as possible, Toriko paid his surroundings no mind, writing off the stinging scent prickling his nose despite the quiet sense of alarm that rose with it. He'd get inside, unload his haul, and then head into the city to grab his partner. When they weren't out searching for some ingredient, Toriko loved the evenings they spent simply relaxing together. No one bothered them way out here.

He pushed open the door, taking a delicious piece of it with him, and wandered into the kitchen to drop his backpack and bag full of goodies on the low counter. It made sense to have this area of the house sized down for Komatsu, since the chef used it far more often than Toriko did. The expression on Komatsu's face when he'd realized Toriko meant a part of his own home to be for him - and him alone - wasn't something Toriko would forget in a hurry.

Grinning at the memory, he poured himself a drink and stretched out on the couch, fishing his mobile from his pocket. Toriko glanced at it briefly before setting it aside in favor of the TV remote. It was sort of strange that Komatsu hadn't called even once while he'd been gone - they spoke every few days at the very least, when Komatsu was too busy with work to travel - but he set the thought aside. If Komatsu needed something, he would have gotten in contact.

Toriko flicked on the television, frowning as he flipped through channels that were either unavailable or broadcasting nothing but static. Was there something wrong with his reception? It was possible something had eaten a section of the roof and caused the satellite to shift. He was just about to give up and go check when he finally landed on a functioning news channel, though the sound and video fuzzed out every couple of seconds.

The newscaster looked frazzled and exhausted, hair in disarray and the skin below her eyes bruised with sleep deprivation. She seemed subdued and washed out despite the bright pink of her suit. This, rather than the words coming from her mouth, was what first alerted Toriko to the fact that something had gone very wrong.

Toriko's muscles tensed as his thoughts turned to Komatsu, triggering a full on fight or flight response as the newscaster's words filtered through his thickening haze of worry - 'disease' and 'mutation' and 'failed cure' and, worse of all, 'rising death toll'. Every single thought in his head, every ounce of deepening concern, was focused on his partner. Something terrible had happened and-

_Where was Komatsu?_

Toriko fumbled for his cell phone, his hands - usually controlled despite their size and ever increasing strength - suddenly clumsy as he tried to turn it on, realized - heart thumping erratically - that the battery was dead, and launched himself across the room to tear his bag apart in search of the spare he'd forgotten he carried with him.

Switching the batteries out so roughly he nearly cracked the phone, Toriko slammed his way outside, an unfamiliar feeling someone else would identify as raw terror rising up to constrict his chest as he scrolled through the list of missed calls.

Three from Coco.

One from Sunny.

And sixty from Komatsu.

It took every ounce of self-control Toriko possessed not to crush the phone with his clenching fingers as he listened to the very last message Komatsu had left him.

_'Toriko-san, please. Please come back soon? It's bad, so bad, and it keeps getting worse.' _The tense, strung out sound of his partner's voice both soothed his panic and ratcheted it higher than ever. Komatsu just sounded so _tired_. And scared. So scared… _'There're these_things_in the streets now. I-I don't know what exactly, but something, a lot of somethings. Police have flooded the city to fight the, the whatever, and even though I'm sure they'll have everything under control in no time, I'd just…I'd feel so much better if you were here. So please, Toriko-san. Please come home.'_

His pulse was pounding in his throat, veins standing out in his corded neck as Toriko checked the timestamp of the missed call. Only three hours ago.

Komatsu was alright. He _had_ to be alright.

…But so much could happen in three hours.

Eyes fixed on the smoke smothered horizon - the acrid stench he'd ignored earlier, like a fool - Toriko dialed Komatsu's number, deathly calm stealing over him as the phone rang, and rang, and rang.

In the distance, Terry howled.

* * *

The piercing ring yanked Komatsu from his exhausted sleep and into full awareness in a split second, startling him so badly that he tumbled from the couch with a pained hiss, Melk knife raised to his chest in a defensive position before he'd even had the chance to digest what was going on, stressed, overtaxed mind a step behind the instincts of his body. Once he'd settled enough to register the sound of his phone demanding attention, Komatsu hurriedly snatched it up. He answered without even checking the number.

_'Komatsu! Komatsu, answer me, damn it! Are you there? Are you hurt?'_

The chef's knees buckled as the achingly familiar voice filled his head, steadied the frantic drumming of his heart. Toriko. Finally, _finally._

"Toriko-san!" he shouted as soon as he'd gathered enough of his shredded wits to form words. "Toriko-san, it's okay. I'm fine, I'm not hurt. I just…" Komatsu's breath hitched, hot tears searing his vision as the reality of his partner sank in. "I was scared, but if you're here I know it's going to be okay, I know it'll all be okay."

There was silence on the other end of the line, and then, _'Where are you?'_

"In my apartment."

_'Stay there,' _Toriko sighed, but the strained tone suggested it was an order. _'I'm coming to get you. Just make sure you have everything packed and ready to go. And stay put. I mean it, Komatsu. Don't you dare go outside.'_

"I'm ready to go as soon as you get here. Don't worry, Toriko-san." Komatsu glanced out at what he could see of the city through the tiny gap in his curtains. "Nothing could convince me to go out there."

Later, Komatsu would introduce his palm to his forehead and feel like an idiot.

Because there was one thing, one surefire way to force him out into the street. And it was all Toriko's fault.

As Komatsu tore through the contents of his kitchen - far more haphazardly than he ever dreamed he would - a high pitched scream echoed from the street directly below his apartment. Komatsu froze, frying pan in hand and his precious knife tucked into his belt. The terrified yells were so close they soon resolved into cries for help.

The fractured wails of a child spurred him into action.

Komatsu charged straight out his front door and raced down the flights of stairs that separated him from street level, immediately catching sight of a family of three retreating into an alley. A small girl, no more than eight years old, clung to her mother. In front of them, a middle aged man wielding what appeared to be a crowbar was herding them back into the shadowed space between Komatsu's apartment complex and the next building.

Turning to see exactly what it was they were running from, Komatsu came face-to-face with the walking dead.

His first reaction was a muted mixture of bemused terror. Because it just wasn't _possible_ for people to be moving while half their limbs were missing, with intestines pouring free of their stomachs and noses ripped clean off their faces. Drenched in clotted blood. Broken jaws hanging loose. Flesh scoured away to reveal muscle and the dirty white glint of bone.

But there they were. Six, seven, _eight _of what Komatsu could only describe as zombies.

Then the woman screamed again, pulling her daughter close, holding on for dear life, and Komatsu started forward without thinking. His pounding footsteps drew the attention of three of the attackers. As they shuffled toward him with faltering steps, Komatsu raised the object in his right hand and swung it at the nearest deformed head with all his strength.

The frying pan (expensive, high quality, a gift from Coco) smashed into the zombie in a spray of blood and brain matter. It lurched, swayed on its feet, and crumpled to the ground, motionless.

And now…now it was Komatsu's turn to shriek.

Shriek and swing again. And again. And again.

When the thing finally stopped twitching, Komatsu's eyes skittered across the gore now oozing across the pavement and dripping from his frying pan - which he would never, ever use again _ever_ - and back to the family retreating from approaching death. There were still seven left. Komatsu wasn't sure he had the stomach to bludgeon more of them.

But what choice did he have? He wasn't meant for this; hunting, killing, was Toriko's job, his duty as one of the best bishokuya in the world. Komatsu only dealt with the aftermath. That's what _he_ was trained for. Yet it was clearly time to face the fact that Toriko wouldn't always be around to dish out the necessary violence. Still…whether or not he needed to man up, there had to be a better way to dispatch zombies.

An image popped into Komatsu's head, memory blurred at the edges with fear but sharp enough, different enough to stand out; Melk knife clutched in his sweaty fist, blade glinting brilliantly even in the shadowed light available so far underground, as he faced off against a beast with only Zebra's rough voice echoing across his hearing, encouraging Komatsu to hold his ground and fight.

These were definitely not ingredients lumbering towards him now, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and Komatsu was pretty sure Melk would forgive him for using her creation this way (and it was hardly a tool meant to be tucked safely away in his kitchen, he really had to admit).

Decision made, Komatsu pulled the knife from his belt the way he'd seen Match draw his sword from its sheath, quickly unraveling the soft strips of cloth he'd wrapped the blade in - more to prevent accidental cuts to things (or _people_) than for protection - and angled the sharpest edge to encompass as many undead as he could.

Control took more effort than just swinging his arm at whatever danger was advancing on him - ancient walls crumbling and the resulting painful fall from his last attempt were a damn good reminder - so Komatsu forced himself to focus on avoiding the family at all costs instead of what he was about to try.

To keep a tight leash on the range and power of his swing, Komatsu moved his arm at the elbow instead of his shoulder. For one moment of breathless fear, Komatsu didn't believe it was going to work - he'd only attempted this once before - but his aim and strength proved true as the remaining zombies were severed at the waist. Slick pink intestines spilled onto the street, blood splattering from the wounds but not spraying messily without a beating heart to pump it out.

The thuds of torsos and legs falling apart was, somehow, the most sickening of it, and Komatsu pressed a palm to his mouth as nausea swept through him before subsiding just as quickly. Which was a good thing; he cried out in surprised disgust as, despite losing half their bodies and a great deal of their internal organs, the undead were still crawling forward, using ruined hands to drag themselves across the asphalt. They didn't seem to realize or care that they no longer had stomachs to fill. Sinking their teeth into living flesh was these creatures' single-minded goal.

Komatsu was at a loss. The zombie he'd attacked earlier was definitely dead; it hadn't so much as twitched after collapsing. They could be killed, but Komatsu wasn't sure exactly what to-

The woman yelped as her husband ran at the squirming undead, crowbar raised high over his shoulder. He smashed it down over and over and over again, and one after another, the monsters finally stopped moving as their brains were liberated from what was left of their skulls.

Everyone was silent for a moment, Komatsu's panting breath loud in his ears, before he shook himself free of the linger shock to say, "Thank you."

"No, thank _you_." The man limped over, crowbar falling listless to his side. "I don't know what we'd have done if you hadn't shown up. Those bastards are slow but they just keep coming, and my family is exhausted." He gestured at his wife and daughter, who were approaching cautiously. The little girl peeked shyly at Komatsu from behind her mother's legs. "So again, thank you very much, Chef Komatsu."

Komatsu blinked, still unused to being recognized on the street even though it had been several months since his Century Soup brought him some small measure of fame. Being caught with Toriko and the other Heavenly Kings on a regular basis only encouraged it.

He heard a voice call out for him, and for a second Komatsu believed it was his mind playing tricks on him - he'd just been thinking of the man, after all - but his name was yelled a second time, and Komatsu pivoted on the spot to find a welcome sight.

Toriko was striding towards him, grinning hugely and as vibrant as ever, a splash of bright color within the smoke shrouded city.

* * *

Toriko had been expecting the barricade. Though the police and IGO officers moved aside for him without a word, their stony expressions made it clear getting out would be far more difficult. He skirted around the outer edges of the panicking civilians attempting to evacuate en masse in a hot, crushing tangle of bodies. Each and every person was being tested for infection before being allowed through.

No exceptions.

How had it gotten this bad so quickly? Everything was quiet when he left less than a week ago. Now it looked like the whole damn world was burning.

He didn't know anything about this disease, or whatever it was. There was no time; he'd grabbed his kit and immediately hightailed it into the city, not even bothering to wait for Terry. She'd find her own way. Right now, Komatsu was his first, his _only_ priority.

As he passed through the outer edges of the city, what hit Toriko hardest was the cacophony of scents, all of them terrible; the permeating smell of smoke, which settled across buildings and blocked the sky from sight; a sweaty, musky stink Toriko was intimately familiar with - fear - that sank into everything and stubbornly clung for a very long time; worst of all, an overwhelmingly putrid decay, sickly sweet and unnervingly prominent.

The last was disturbing not just for how it blanketed every other scent, like walking into a wall of bodies, but because there _weren't_ any. There was blood, pooled in cracked cement and painted over walls. Discarded organs. The occasional stay limb.

But no corpses. Nothing that would account for the sheer insistence of the smell. Though he wasn't, admittedly, entirely up to date on what was happening. Yes, he'd gotten a vague impression of a disease, but he hadn't stuck around long enough to hear what was going on right now, which went way beyond an epidemic. Way, way beyond.

Once, he'd spotted something off in the distance, all jerky stride and hunched spine, pace slow but eerily purposeful. A drunk, he'd thought, but couldn't sense anything _alive_…

Toriko very nearly broken into a run after the disconcerting apparition. Whatever he thought he saw, dangerous didn't even begin to describe it.

Komatsu's apartment wasn't far now. He rounded the next corner and wrinkled his nose as a wave of scent curled up and punched him square in the face. Someone had recently spilled blood close by – but not fresh blood, which was the oddest thing to get used to. Something had been slaughtered, but not a _living_ something. Not good, per say, but the chances of Komatsu being the newly killed lessened if it was already dead.

Not that Komatsu had nothing to do with it; even above the gore, Toriko could smell the spiciness he'd come to associate with his partner. There was nothing Komatsu could do to wash off the smell of good food, which rose above everything else, even mud and blood and tears.

Komatsu had come outside since they'd spoken on the phone. Toriko's mouth twisted, uncertain whether it wanted to smile or scowl – he was both put out that his partner ignored his explicit directions and pretty damn sure he knew why. Lo and behold, as he made his way past the apartment complex, Komatsu's scent, as well as that of the fresh kill, strengthened. He wandered up to a neighboring alley and froze.

Even knowing what he expected to find couldn't prepare Toriko for the reality of Komatsu – tiny, easily excited Komatsu – surrounded on all sides by bodies of the dead and dead again, not a single scratch on him and a family of four thanking him profusely. One hand clenched white-knuckled around the handle of his Melk knife, quickly becoming his staple and, apparently, his most powerful weapon, which Toriko would have to keep in mind from now on. Toriko took a second to admire Komatsu's skill, how cleanly the bodies were sliced in half. There weren't many ingredients that would survive the bite of a blade like Komatsu's.

_Heh. Not bad at all._

Zebra would be so pissed he missed out on _this_.

"Komatsu!" Toriko yelled, pleased grin firmly in place. "_Komatsu!_"

The way his partner lit up at the sight of him filled Toriko with warm relief. Komatsu was here, he was in one piece; now they could focus on meeting up with the others to figure out what the hell was going on and how they were going to fix it _this_ time.

Komatsu cried out in greeting and raced towards him, arms outstretched and tears already beginning to gather in the corners of his eyes – the reaction was pure Komatsu, and Toriko acted without thinking, surging to meet his chef halfway and lift him into a hug that lasted too long and not long enough, Komatsu's small fingers twisting against the fabric of his shirt, his own hands curving around Komatsu's back, tucking beneath his ribs.

After a dizzying second of inhaling nothing but Komatsu – the smells of an infected city finally smothered beneath something delicious – Toriko realized his partner was wailing, babbling madly into his collar.

"I'm so glad, Toriko-san! It felt like the whole world had gone crazy and I was so worried because I kept calling but you never answered and I had no idea what happened to you – not that I thought it was anything bad, because you're you! – and Coco-san told me to just wait, so I did. He was right, of course he was, Coco-san is always right, since you're here now-"

"Komatsu," Toriko said loudly, cutting off the rambling. He rubbed the chef's back, small, light strokes of his fingertips along Komatsu's spine, hoping it would calm Komatsu down. "Just _breathe_."

Komatsu did so, relaxing against him. Crap, if Zebra or Sunny (or both, god help him) found out he'd left Komatsu alone when everything started spiraling hellwards, he'd get the beating of a lifetime. Komatsu could handle himself, but it was time to accept that they were much, much happier together.

* * *

Komatsu struggled to get himself under control; with Toriko holding him safe and close, memories of the last four days – every moment of worry and fear, night after night of restless sleep – rushed up to drown him like muddy water. So much had happened since he'd first met Toriko, and he'd almost died (_had_ died, heart so compressed with fear it simply stopped) more than once, yet being powerless to do anything except sit and wait was so much worse. Much longer and he would have gone outside despite what Coco or the news or common sense told him. Watching without _doing_ anything, without taking action, had been driving him crazy.

His breath hitched when Toriko gripped him tightly in response to his trembling, and Komatsu opened his mouth to say something – likely mushy and embarrassing Toriko would wrinkle his nose at – when a throat was cleared, reminding him they weren't alone. Komatsu turned to glance at the man he'd saved from the side of his eye, but didn't ask Toriko to set him down when he made no move to.

"Toriko-sama," he greeted, bowing respectfully before focusing on Komatsu. "Before we leave, I'd just like to suggest attacking their heads." He gestured to the bodies with his crowbar, which was encrusted with dried gore. "Only destroying their brains kills them."

"So that's why they kept going after I cut them in half?" Komatsu shuddered.

Toriko nodded, eying the corpses thoughtfully. "Try vertical cuts next time."

"Y-Yes," he stammered, and secretly hoped there wouldn't be a next time.

Having said his piece, the man wrapped an arm around his wife and daughter and began steering them down the street. "Wait!" Komatsu called after them. "Where will you go now?"

"We have family in Gourmet Fortune." It was the first time Komatsu heard the woman speak, and he took a closer look at her, curious. Her hair was a mess, hanging in sweaty blonde tangles around her face, and sharp blue eyes swept nervously along the empty road. "It should be safer out in the country."

"Probably, though I doubt Coco is there." Toriko shrugged. "The way out is clear."

The man inclined his head. "Thank you, Toriko-sama. And thank you again, Chef Komatsu. We're truly grateful."

Komatsu waved as they walked away. The little girl waved back, tears drying on her cheeks.

He finally squirmed in Toriko's arms, suddenly realizing his partner had been holding on to him for…a while. He needed to get down and walk, anyway. "Let's go back to my apartment, Toriko-san. I need to grab my things."

Rather than set him on the ground, Toriko simply squeezed Komatsu gently and turned back to the apartment building. Komatsu gave up trying to get free after a moment; if Toriko wanted to carry him, he'd do so, and only a real protest from Komatsu would convince him otherwise. The chef didn't have it in him to complain.

It was only once they'd stepped through his door and Toriko locked it behind them that Komatsu's tense muscles loosened. He hadn't noticed how tightly wound he'd been since setting foot outside. The city he'd called home for years was in ruins; Komatsu didn't know, couldn't even guess, how long it would take to rebuild after this – epidemic, invasion, whatever it was – had been taken care of. At this point, all he could do was hope against hope that a cure was found soon, and that the undead didn't destroy everything in the meantime.

He gave a shaky sigh and played the tips of his fingers through the surprising softness of Toriko's hair, earning himself a happy grin, before Komatsu gestured for his partner to set him down. This time, Toriko complied with the wordless demand, disappearing into the kitchen as Komatsu ran through a last minute double-check of his equipment. He'd carefully packed most of his favorite cooking utensils and spices, uncertain how long they'd be gone or what state his apartment would be in whenever they managed to make their way back. Honestly, the thought of leaving his home to be overtaken by rampaging zombies didn't sit well with him, the thought a heavy weight in his chest every time it crossed his mind. But perhaps they wouldn't go far at all; Toriko's home was close enough to walk too, but far enough away that attacks would be few and far between. Maybe. Komatsu wasn't exactly an expert on the zombie lifestyle.

Once he was certain he had all the things he'd need, Komatsu wandered into the kitchen to see if Toriko finished eating him out of house and home, which was not only a normal occurrence but probably for the best (this time). Instead of standing with the fridge wide open, stuffing more food than was humanly possible in his mouth, Toriko had a handful of Komatsu's apron pressed to his nose. He inhaled, deep lungfuls of scent, and when he noticed Komatsu watching him with a stupid expression on his face, he beamed and waved the apron at his chef.

"Can I have this?" he asked cheerfully.

"Um…I guess?" Komatsu's brain was still struggling to figure out why Toriko was being even more strange than usual. He took things from his kitchen all the time, but not, usually, the tools he used while cooking. Toriko was rather more partial to the results. "What are you going to-?"

Before he had the chance to ask, Toriko was tearing it into thick strips. He shoved all but one of them in his pocket and tied the other loosely around his face, mouth and nose covered like some sort of bandit. Komatsu couldn't see it, but he could tell Toriko was still smiling by the slant of his eyes.

"Something the matter?" Toriko asked, all fake innocence.

All Komatsu could do was shake his head helplessly and wonder why he even bothered to be surprised by anything Toriko did anymore.

Toriko tugged the material down to rest on his throat, smile dimming slightly but not disappearing altogether. "It smells like hell out there. But your apron is pretty tasty, so it'll help, I think."

His cheeks felt strangely hot, so Komatsu just nodded, following Toriko out of the kitchen and accepting his pack when it was handed to him. Time to let Toriko lead him on yet another adventure.

* * *

A/N - Yay, first chapter! Next will hopefully be out in a month or so.

I'd be lying if I said this was my first zombie fic, but it is the first I've published. Hopefully I haven't failed spectacularly.


End file.
